


harder the rain, sweeter the sun

by fr0ntier



Series: behind your secrets and all of your sins [2]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Black Widow (Movie 2020), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Road Trips, Sexual Tension, also spies being really bad at communication, but eventually figuring their shit out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2020-04-11 04:14:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19100668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fr0ntier/pseuds/fr0ntier
Summary: Sequel to Show Me Why You're Strong-- -- -- -- --Natasha promised Bucky Barnes the Nazi-hunting trip of a lifetime, and she plans to deliver. She's determined to keep things platonic, to ignore the tension that simmers between them. It's definitely possible for them to be "just friends", right?...Right?





	1. south dakota

**Author's Note:**

> hello everyone!!! i'm back after a particularly long hiatus. i promised a sequel and here it is. pls enjoy the ridiculous tension and romance and drama from our favorite stubborn dumb idiots  
> title: [no plan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PdowVbNLsQ8) by hozier  
> my tumblr: [fr0ntier](fr0ntier.tumblr.com) (not used very often)  
> 

There’s a farmhouse built on the outskirts of the Black Hills in South Dakota. Tucked amongst dry grass, thistle, and shrubs is the withered shell of a once-beloved family home. Fallen into disrepair, it rises from the pine needles and dirt like a ghost.

The property rests on a strange dividing line between mountainous, thick forest and brittle grasslands. Time and the elements have aged the structure’s once periwinkle exterior into a weathered, dusty grayscale. Otherwise surrounded for miles by unkept, brittle plain, the front yard yields only a single white ponderosa pine. It stands tall, towers over the eastern side of the yard; in the early morning hours, just when the sun begins to climber the horizon, the whole home is cast in the eerie, rippling shadow from its branches.

Once a proud architectural feature, the farmhouse’s wrap-around porch has fallen into poor shape, remaining yet another skeletal testament to its dignified past. The porch stretches in an L-shape from the east-facing front door towards the backyard, where it abruptly ends in a sad pile of rickety planks and rusty nails. Walking along the still intact portions of the porch requires knowledge and practice: one wrong step could result in splinters at the very least, and at the worst, the chance to fall into the dank underbelly of the house, to be swallowed by whatever lies beneath. The roof, in equally terrible condition, hasn’t provided the rest of the structure much protection. It slants dangerously down one side, weighed heavy thanks to the crumbling chimney.

Despite looking like it belongs on a pretentious photography blog dedicated to abandoned places, or on the set of a post-apocalyptic film, the farmhouse is oddly peaceful. Eerie and haunting, yes. While its isolation from the rest of the world certainly provides more to its unsettling ambiance, there’s a strange sort of serenity to the place.

There’s comfort in its disarray, a and even in the knowledge that the structure is so close to being swallowed whole by the wildlife around it. Reclaimed, as it were, by nature. As if the earth herself holds a grudge, and desperately wants the land back.

It is a sanctuary. Several windows on the third floor - once boarded shut between cycles of ownership - now remain open to the cool mountain air; and so critters and creatures and bugs have made the empty attic home. Above, in the darkness of the attic, is where hundreds of floaty, fragile moths, crickets, weevils, and spiders reside. In the morning, black swallowtail butterflies dance amongst the grass and carpenter ants scour the porch in the afternoon. Possums find sanctum in the darkness below the porch, birds construct delicate nests amongst caving shingles on the roof. At night, the fireflies and skimmers dance their fragile dance, surviving solely on the slim probability that the bats - who reside in the rafters - will miscalculate during their nightly hunt.

 

Regardless of its flaws, Natasha finds that she _likes_ the farmhouse, if not a little begrudgingly. She must admit that there is an undoubtably mysterious beauty to the place, an energy that makes her want to run barefoot and carefree, yet cower in a corner at the same time The place is a gritty, ugly thing, yet it stands resilient after so long. It’s hard, yet permeable; a haven and a desolate prison all at once.

And after all, she’s always had a knack for finding the charm in broken things. She would hate herself more than she already does, if she didn’t.

Still, its hard to shake the sense of wrongness she feels while staying there. Natasha is a little bit of a city girl at heart, although she’d rather die before admitting that. New York seems _universes_ away and so it doesn’t take long into her South Dakota adventure before she begins to miss the noisy, unending commotion of the city.

As captivating as it can be, it will always be a dilapidated, remote ruin in the middle of nowhere. A memory of another time, lost in progress. Natasha finds it a more difficult adjustment than her defection, which seems dramatic. But sometimes there’s a brush of pine needles against her window, sometimes the cricket and their symphony begin to sound like nails on a chalkboard. Sometimes the quiet is a blessings and others, it’s so oppressive and heavy that her skin crawls.

Sometimes the brush of pine needles against her window at night will comfort her. Sometimes it sounds as awful as nails on a chalkboard. Sometimes the quiet is a blessing, and sometimes it makes her skin crawl.

Natasha knows she will never truly be at ease in a place like this. But to be fair, she can say that about _most_ places she goes. She has never, and might never, feel truly relaxed at all _._

Part of the problem is that she is painfully self-aware. Ignorance is bliss, as they say, but out here in the hills, she has time enough to think and not much at all to _do._ Her parting from Wakanda had been bittersweet; she’s recently decided that she would trade her anonymity and safety in order to once again drown in turmoil, excitement, and _mess_. 

Here, in the foothills, Natasha has no combat to exhaust her, no enemies to vanquish, no research to conduct, no espionage to enact.

No noise to drown out the little voices in her head.

Downtime to normal people is a blessing: a rainy day, a good book, a movie with friends. Maybe a date, a video game, a crossword puzzle. That’s not to say she doesn’t enjoy a glass of wine and a self-indulgent evening accompanied by too many episodes of a trashy reality show. But _Natasha_ and _break_ mix about as well as oil and water. Free time is as foreign a concept to her as aliens and interstellar travel and gods and different dimensions. She’d rather have Thor explain quantum physics to her than have time to _think._

Downtime…it feels wrong, to say the least.

Especially now, when there’s nothing for her to accomplish or plan. Natasha is just…waiting around.

_Doing nothing._

Of course, she knows her perspective is unhealthy.But relaxation, to someone like Natasha, is the rush of endorphins and adrenaline in a fist fight. Relaxing is watching a corrupt politician try and level with her to weasel out of blackmail. Relaxing is the expression on a dignitary’s face when they realize she’s outsmarted them. Bringing down crime syndicates, squashing the average weekly alien invasion, the perfect shot, reloading just in time, taking a hit only to hit back harder.There’s no denying the comfort they bring her.

All those things? They’re her relaxation. They’re fulfilling. Pleasant.

What isn’t pleasant is being a prisoner to her own thoughts and having intense emotional revelations over a five-year-old Sudoku puzzle book. And that’s happened…twice.

 

So in the end, she’s all of five days into her stay at the farmhouse when she decides: _fuck downtime._

She’s Natasha Romanoff, and she operates differently from most people and if she does _one morecrossword she will go absolutely postal._

 

The breakfast nook is probably the nicest part of the farmhouse. The floors are bleached nearly white from near-constant exposure to the sun, which trickles in through the tall, arched window. They’ve pushed a table up against the wall, a vase of lavender stems in the center to give it a little more personality. Natasha sits at one of the mismatching chairs, enjoying the pleasant scent and a pleasant cup of coffee, shoveling handfuls of pleasant-tasting raspberries from the pleasant bush in the backyard and ... and —

_She’s going to go insane. Oh, Christ._

Fortunately, Sam Wilson’s very distinct laugh floats in from the kitchen. It’s a much lovelier noise than the wild, anxious voice in the back of her head. And, when he’s being nice and not annoying her, she might even argue it’s as easy on the ears as Black Hills birdsong or the calming trill of frogs and crickets at night.

Natasha glances up, eyes drifting over the half-wall that separates the nook and the kitchen. She smirks at the peek of heart-print pajama pants she can see through a hole in the drywall. He’s standing in front of the sink, scrubbing bacon grease and scrambled eggs from the skillet and their plates.

She thinks, full of pride and envy in equal measure, that no one will _ever_ be as pretty as Wilson in that moment. All he’s doing is household chores, but the light filters in through t he window and he looks so at ease and happy that…well. She’ll be first in line to punch anyone who disagrees with her sentiment. Even she wishes she could be half as easily glamorous while up to her elbows in dish water.

The whole moment feels pulled from a daydream. _Mercy Mercy Me_ , one of his favorite songs, floats from the phone in his pocket. It drifts through the house, reverberating in the mostly empty rooms and echoing back. It’s a calm, idyllic morning.

(Coupled with the house’s atmosphere, her next few dreams will undoubtedly future whimsical, strange visions of fairies, misty forests, crossroads, and abandoned castles.)

Lost in thought, she begins to drown in the ripples of coffee in her mug; her eyes are just beginning to glaze over when a voice snaps her out of her reverie: “Earth to Natasha _.”_

Her head snaps up. Sam is grinning at her, one eyebrow raised in a gentle expression of mild concern. “What are you being so dramatic about over there?”

“Just thinking.”

Sam laughs, and the noise blankets her in familiar warmth. “Dangerous.”

Right now, she’s as close to relaxed as she’ll ever get. Her mouth twitches, threatening a cheek-tearing smile. “You’re telling me.” She rubs her temples with a groan. “My brain hurts.”

“Self introspection will do that,” he sticks his tongue out, focusing on a tough-to-clean spot. “But I can practically read your thoughts from here.” His eyes flick over to her. “You know you won’t be the first one to go cabin crazy, right?” Sam sucks his teeth, hooking a thumb over his bare shoulder, out the window opposite the kitchen. 

It’s early in the morning, but Steve is already hunched over in the front garden, face and hands smudged with fresh, dark dirt. He’s hunched over a plot of soil, carefully guiding the fragile new growth of a tomato plant to curl around a trellis.

Natasha’s smile grows. Between the three of them, Steve is the one who’s taken to this life the quickest. He’s been the most effective at keeping himself busy, jumping headfirst into all sorts of projects around the house.

As it turns out, the kid raised dirt-poor in Brooklyn has a knack for thrifting and DIY. Who knew.

“We were only here a week before you,” Sam shakes his head, “but by the time we picked you up in Rapid City, he’d already finished fixing the floor upstairs, starting that garden, and building those chairs out on the porch.” Steve makes frequent trips for hardware and furniture, and Natasha has to admit he’s turned the place downright cozy. Well. As cozy as it can be. “Gonna drive himself crazy with it all.”

“Hell no. He’s _thriving_ out here.” Natasha pops another raspberry in her mouth. They both seemed to be doing pretty good with the whole _government-titled traitors in hiding_ thing.Certainly better than she was, anyway. Domesticity really suited the pair. “Although I think we should start a bet about how long he can go without Internet.”

Her wry comment earns an amused snort from Sam. For a senior citizen, Steve is remarkably tech savvy…and tech addicted.

“Pretty soon he’s gonna run out of things to fix and firewood to chop.” Sam’s hands pausein the soapy water and he turns to the window, biting his lip. “I’m gonna miss that part actually. Gratuitous shirtlessness is a god-send, out here. Don’t have much to do but drool over that boy.” He hums thoughtfully, a naughty edge to the noise. “How long do trees take to grow back?”

“What, are you going to plant a whole forest to make sure you get your fill of eye candy?” Natasha shakes her head. “Don’t think we’re gonna be that here long enough.”

Sam clucks mournfully, but his expression is quick to shift into pure, unfiltered happiness when Steve suddenly straightens up from his work and bounds up the front steps. The front door swings open on rusted hinges, squeaking loud enough to wake the dead, and then Steve’s in the kitchen. He wastes no time, sidling immediately up to Sam and wrapping his arms around Sam’s waist. He presses a soft, affectionate kiss to the back of his neck, and Natasha is suddenly hit with the thought that this is something not for her eyes. She sighs and crosses her arms, managing a faux-annoyed “you’re tracking in dirt,” that goes ignored. Not that she’s surprised. She’d need a crowbar to pry them apart.

The two of them are disgusting cute and they’re too wrapped up in each other most of the time to notice…well. Anything, really.

Natasha watches as Sam turns in Steve’s arms, flashing a genuine, wide smile. Steve looks like he’s looking directly into the sun, like Sam hung it in the sky himself. Her chest feels warm and full. She’s happy for them, as disgusting as they are.

“Morning, babe,” Steve mutters. His hands slide up between Sam’s shoulder blades, rubbing gently at the muscle there. Then he drops them into the soapy water behind Sam, quickly washing off the dirt and grim from under his nails without having to let go of his boyfriend.

“Efficient.” Natasha teases, tongue between her teeth.

Steve gives her the finger, still grinning. “Morning to you too, Romanoff.”

“She’s prickly today,” Sam teases back. He looks floaty, glowing, clearly more alive when Steve is around. He tilts his head against Steve’s chest, offering him a sweet peck that makes the blond’s cheeks flush.

Then, to Natasha’s absolute disgust, still wrapped together like dopey, horny pythons, they start _doing the dishes in tandem._ Without letting go of each other. Natasha can’t handle the cuteness, and she wrinkles her nose.

“That is so _supremely_ unpleasant,”she intones dramatically, syllables mushed around yet another mouthful of raspberries. The comment goes largely ignored, because her favorite idiots are too busy canoodling and giggling and splashing each other with soapy dishwater like stupid teenagers.

“So very unpleasant,” she tries again, loud and cheeky enough to catch their attention. “So, so unpleasant.” Another raspberry tossed into the air, caught effortlessly. She shakes her head, feigning revulsion. “It’s like watching my parents.”

They smirk at her in tandem, and Steve opens his mouth to chirp: “Shaddup, orphan.”

To anyone else, the comment might come across as rude, uncalled for, or cruel. Surely it crosses one of the Black Widow’s many lines? She’s known for having a bit of a feisty temper.

But it’s Steve, is the thing. He’s in the same boat. Plus, a lot of people are unable (or unwilling) to see past the all-American persona to see the evil little shit underneath. Steve gets as feisty as she does, arguably with a better sense of humor. Especially now when he’s feeling _normal_ , unguarded, safe. He’s happy to be in this little slice of paradise, and as a result his personality peeks out more and more each day. He gets to be Steve, unfiltered and relaxed…and that’s a rare treat these days.

(Being the Black Widow is burden enough, but Natasha can’t begin to imagine how the weight of the world must feel on Atlas’s shoulders.)

“Careful with the family jabs, Steven.” She demures, sweet as cyanide. “I’m not the one who made out with my ex-girlfriend’s niece.”

If she thought Steve was a little pink before, now he looks like the shiny little cherry tomatoesin his garden. The effect is only enhanced by Sam’s unapologetic bark of laughter.

“It was one time. _”_ Steve mumbles indignantly, though the words nearly lost under Sam’s noisy amusement. “Shut _up,_ Wilson.” Sam yelps now, jumping when teeth dig into his shoulder. “It’s not funny.” The flush spreads below the neckline of his dirt-stained tank top. “I - I was in a vulnerable place.”

Natasha hums, smirking. “Bet not as vulnerable as Sam was,” she points out with a wink. “I mean, sitting in the back of the car, watching all —” she trails off to do an impression of his resting bitch face, crossing her arms and _harumph_ ing. “When he told me that one, I was kinda surprised he didn’t fall over dead from jealousy.”

Sam’s laughter cuts off abruptly, narrowing his eyes. “Oh yeah, that was…annoying.” Turning in Steve’s arms, he frowns. “I forgive you for that, you know? But only because it didn’t takethat much longer for you to get your head out of your ass.”

“And get you in it,” Natasha snickers quietly.

The smile Steve graces him with is gross; bright enough to light a city with the megawatts coming off it. He’s still very red, and it’s an overall charming image. “Best decision I ever made,” he says softly. In response, Sam practically super-glues their mouths together, forcing Natasha to witness something that she doesn’t want to.

(There’s only one thing louder than the bugs at night, and that’s the rhythmic, creaky thumping of the pair’s thrifted wire-frame bed against the wall. The walls aren’t thin, but they’re thin _enough_. She knows exactly what happens every night. And day. And afternoon. And mid-afternoon, early evening And— well.)

“You know what, Sam? I take it back.” She puts her forehead on the cool tabletop. “I am going to puke,” she raises a finger, then another: “And _then_ I’m gonna go insane.”

There’s no real heat behind the words, of course. As much as she hates the lack of privacy, she can’t be angry at them, not really. They’re her boys. Natasha is just happy that they’ve found each other. Her best friends, the people she trusts with her life, and the ones who — somehow — trust her with theirs. She loves to see them happy and content, as cavity-inducing, saccharine sweet the whole thing is sometimes. With whatthey’ve been through? She’s of the opinion that they _deserve_ to be sappy and stupid and in love. But that doesn’t mean she won’t delight in reminding them how disgusting they are for the rest of forever.

Sam extracts himself out of Steve’s python-like grasp, shoving his shoulder into his belly with a snort as Steve attempts to ensnare him once more. There’s a little bit of a struggle that threatens to shift into an all out WWE match, but Natasha’s throat clearing is enough of a warning that they call a truce. Steve lets Sam pull away the next time, and he saunters over to join Natasha at the kitchen table.

Legs stretching out, he nudges the bottom rung of her chair with his ankle. “C’mon, Nat. You really think we’re that unpleasant to be around? Us?” He bats his eyelashes. “Your favorite people on Earth?”

Hand pressed over her heart, Natasha gasps. “My favorite people? Oh my God, how did you convince Tiffany ‘New York’ Pollard and Kris Jenner to come to South Dakota?”

“We need to cut the cable off,” Sam throws his arm around the back of his chair, directing the words at Steve. “She’s too deep in Flavor of Love.”

“It might be too late,” Steve shoots back with a laugh without looking up from the dishes. “Plus, Natasha. We’re refugees.”

Sam picks up easily: “Yeah, Nat. We’re refugees. It’s a hard life out here. Gotta take the opportunities —” his eyebrows dance on his forehead “where we can get them.”

Natasha’s lips curl, masking her grin with a theatrical scowl. “Well I’m losing sleep because of those opportunities.” The boys laugh knowingly at the same time, sharing a brief but heated look. “Ugh. Cavities.” She stands and takes her bowl over to the sink, nudging Steve with her hip. He makes room immediately, letting her dip the cracked china in the sink. “I’m kinda serious, actually. All I’m saying —” Sam looks impish, grinning that gap-toothed grin at her. She amends: “all I’m _humbly requesting_ , is that when opportunities arise..well. If it’s four in the afternoon and Natasha is about to come home from an innocent trip to the grocery store, maybe —”

She sighs and tilts her head up to the ceiling pleadingly. “Maybe I don’t get a front-seat ticket to super soldier o-face in the middle of the living room.” Sam’s cheeks darken a little at that, so Natasha throws in a dramatic shudder to drive the point home. “Please. Mercy.”

Sam barks out another happy laugh, the force of it so strong that the crown of his head collides with the window behind his chair. “Sss— ow. Ouch.”

Natasha points her brush at him. “Karmatic.” Pausing for a second to think, she grimaces. “Also, I don’t want to see your ass ever again.”

“Dude!” Sam says at the same time that Steve snickers “well, I do.” He jumps up from the chair, turns and bends at the knees a little to point said ass at Natasha. “You two will never appreciate how hard I work on this cake, okay? I don’t have the unnatural metabolism so I — and I mean this literally — work my ass off.” He pats one cheek proudly and then turns around. “You should be so _lucky_ to be a witness.”

“Unpleasant,” Natasha repeats, head tilted resolutely down to the dishes in the sink.

“Sam’s ass is your biggest complaint?” Steve asks, taking a dripping plate that she passes to him for drying. “You know, we could be fighting another robot army.” He points out. “Are you sure a couple awkward encounters is worse?”

Natasha carefully puts the dish she was scrubbing back into the water, wipes her hands on her jeans, and then turns to Steve with a very serious expression on her face.

“Extremely sure,” she intones solemnly.

“Weapons of ass destruction,” Sam mumbles, and then points at Steve agreeably. “That’s a good point, actually. Whenever I think about how shitty it is that we have like, ten books to read and re-read,” he looks up thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Well, I think about alien armies.”

Steve tilts his head. “Exactly. I’m just saying it could be worse — oof!” Both of his hands come up to catch the wet plate Natasha shoves against his chest. As he rubs at it with the dry cloth, he directs a valid question towards her. “Besides, aren’t you out of here in a few days? On a vacation or something?”

Natasha opens her mouth to answer, but Sam is faster. “Important secret mission,” he amends, shooting her a suggestive, knowing grin. “But she’s not goin’ it alone.”

She glares at him, glancing between Steve’s bewildered expression and Sam’s mischievous smirk. A vacation-slash-mission is _exactly_ what she’s preparing for. She’d promised James, after all. She just…hasn’t exactly gotten around to telling either of them about the specifics. Any info - especially regarding who her mysterious guest would be - will only earn her and _lots_ of snark. Snark that, frankly, she really doesn’t have the patience for.

But she supposes it was inevitable, so Natasha sighs and drops her dish brush in favor of clutching the edge of the sink.

“Secret missions are supposed to be secret,” Natasha chides Sam, crossing her arm and slumpsin the chair, feeling a little guilt over the fact that she’d been hoping to keep it a secret up until the minute she left. “How the fuck do you know about it?”

He laughs, amused and soft, rounded from the usual loud edge with what sounds suspiciouslylike affection. It also sounds sneakier than usual, and judging from the knowing look he shares with Steve (who has just plopped himself into the last chair) they both know the answer and find it highly amusing.

“Well,” Sam examines his fingernails. “I’m sure you know your business partner has a big mouth.”

Steve smirks at her and she frowns in response, looking between them suspiciously. “Mybusiness partner,” she repeats cautiously.

Sam nods, full lips pressed into a very serious line. “Oh, yeah. You know who.” Steve snickers. “Your boy talks about you an awful lot.”

Natasha freezes in her chair, shoulders drawn tight. Her _boy?_ “Excuse me.”

“Mmhm,” Steve hums, clearly trying not to laugh. “Haven’t seen him this excited for something in a long, long time.” Her heart does a nasty little flip in her chest, and Natasha does not hesitate in crushing the emotion down. “He can’t stop talking about how fun beating up Nazis with you is going to be.”

 _Her boy?_ She repeats in her head, eyes wide and darting between them. _Did they know?_ _Did he say anything?_ Unbidden, the image of intelligent, dark eyes and a cautious smirk invades her head, and Natasha wonders, not for the first time, if this whole thing might be a mistake. She also wonders, hand pressed to her forehead as if physically pressing certain memories and thoughts back into the recesses of her brain, if Steve and Sam can tell what she’s feeling. She does a quick mental sweep of herself, gauging her expression and body language, relaxing it accordingly. A little too late, if their twin smirks have anything to say about it.

“Barnes…” Natasha drawls, ignoring the fact that he would be annoyed with her for reverting back to formality, “Barnes is not ‘my boy’,” she grits her teeth together, jaw clicking, hoping that her voice sounds only a touch mournful to her own ears.

Anyway, she’s not technically lying. He’s not…they’re not _…together._ A thing.

 _No present, only the past_ , her mind reaffirms her. _Don’t think about the future because that’s just going to make you lose brain cells._

After their little adventure in Wakanda and the ill-advised night they’d shared, she and Barnes had agreed on remaining friends. Sometimes she has to remind herself it was the right choice. The logical choice. The alternative, giving in and letting herself get swept away? That wasn’t a good idea.

Natasha chews her lip thoughtfully, considering how he might react if she told him all this aloud. It would undoubtedly hurt his feelings, but…wouldn’t giving in inevitably hurt even more? That’s what she told herself at least. Sometimes it was the only mantra that allowed her sleep at night; haunted, if she thought of him too long, by deep conversations and heated glances and that night and their past and their pain.

It comes down to a simple fact: she cares about Barnes. She cares about him a lot, in fact. They’re cut from the same cloth. She knows what pains him because it pains her, and she selfish knows that if he can be happy and health, than so can she. That’s what she wants. She wants him to thrive, enjoy life. Have some semblance of normality and stability.

Natasha Romanoff does not lead a normal or stable life, and as selfish as she wants to be, she can’t allow herself to give in. She’ll just have to learn to be content with friendship - and she could be, truthfully.The road trip is as much a Nazi-hunting adventure for fun revenge as it is a test run. A trial to put herself through. If they work well together on this road trip without complicating things, without creating a mess — because God knows they’ve both had enough _mess_ — then she can cope. She can be around him without wanting to wither up and die. Together, like that? They were just too raw and messy. It wouldn’t end well.

She’s been quiet a very long time, it seems, because Steve and Sam’s expressions have turned kind of concerned.

“He’s not ‘my boy’.” Natasha clears her throat, definitively announcing it as if to convince herself of the fact. She air quotes the phrase to really drive the point through their thick skulls, because they’re smirking at her like they don’t quite believe it. “And even if he was -” she lifts a finger up to hush Sam, who opens his mouth “W _hich he is not_ \- I guarantee we, and any other couple for that matter, wouldn’t be nearly as disrespectful of noise curfew than you two.”

Sam presses a limp hand over his heart, gasps like a dramatic southern belle.

“My stars!” He lifts his hand to press the back of it to his forehead, “Whatever could you mean?” He twists to blink at Steve with wide, innocent eyes. “Did you hear that, babe? _Noise!_ ”

Catching on fast, Steve grins and adopts a similar expression, palm pressed to his cheek. “Noisy? Oh, we wouldn’t dare!”

Sam snorts, drawing them both out of the game. He rocks back in the chair, balanced precariously on termite-rotted legs, and levels Natasha with one of his patented Looks. “Girl. You are lying more than Paul Giamatti in Big Fat Liar.” His eyes gleam. “Bucky talks about you like Steve talks about boring mid-century artists.”

“Hey!”

“He’s totally _your boy_.” Sam drives on, ignoring him. “And not that I want to think about it, but the two of you?” He shakes his head, grimacing. “ Y’all would be way worse than us.”

Steve shrugs, opening his mouth. He’s probably about to tell some story of Bucky back _in the good ol’ days_ , and right now Natasha doesn’t think she can handle hearing one of those without bailing due to pure, spiteful jealousy.

Sam, who has a dangerous look on his face that says he’s thinking of a particularly nefarious plan, raises his eyebrows. “In fact, I’ll give y’all three days on this mysterious little mission before you’re bumpin’ uglies.” He bites his lips and makes an absence gesture, yanking the table back and forth.

Steve, to her shock and dismay, betrays her by laying out a crisp twenty on the middle of the table. She gapes at him in disbelief, just about ready to throttle him until he can’t string two wordstogether. He only shrugs, infuriatingly smug, and levels Sam with a grin.

“Two days.”

Sam waggles his eyebrows and stands to retrieve his wallet from his coat, coming back with a bill of his own. He lays it on top of Steve’s and smirks. “Two days versus three days. Forty bucks Natasha breaks that boy in half and then they turn up here giggling like a couple of idiots.”

Steve’s expression shifts from teasing to wistful, and Natasha realizes she’s not the only one imagining Barnes with a stupid, happy grin plastered on his face. “Maybe it would be romantic.. Bucky would be over the moon.” He reaches for Natasha’s hand across the table, encasing her cool fingers in the inhumane heat he radiates. She tries not to flinch, because it would hurt his feelings.

“You know I’m serious, Nat. We don’t mean to insert ourselves into your business, but we’ve talked about this before. He does talk about you like…I dunno. He really admires you. And what you did for him was—” Steve shakes his head, throat bobbing.When he looks back up at her from their joined hands, his eyes are a little shiny. “I just want you to know, Sam and I we just want what makes you happy.” He smiles softly. “You and Buck both deserve happiness.”

Natasha’s own throat feels a little tight, now. She swallows and shakes her head, unwilling to cry over this, especially in front of them. The last thing she wants to be is a lovesick idiot.

“God, I really hate both of you,” Natasha seethes without any real agitation. Sam reaches out to put his hand on top of the pile, squeezing. “But honestly, I’m not going to sleep with Bucky. All it is…he’s just backing me up, okay? We’re friends, we both hate Nazis, and we’re going to have fun.” She straightens up a little, mouth set in a firm line. “As _friends_.”

“Nazi hunting, enclosed spaces, two hot assassins who have a steamy, dramatic history?” Sam tilts his head. “Yeah, I’m sure it’ll end platonically.”

 _Better it end platonically than with any kind of hurt._ Natasha thinks. She really has to sell it to herself if it’s going to work. _There’s no other way it can end, you idiot. As much as you might want it to._

Steve’s hand slips out from under the pile in favor of cradling his own jaw. “So, what’s the game plan? Which cities are you hitting?”

Natasha counts off on her fingers as she lists the suspected base locations. “Well, back when we took Hydra down in D.C., everything got splintered up. There’s only a few big operations left on the continent.” She taps each fingertip.“Upstate New York, near the Canadian border. Somerumors about a revitalized chapter in West Virginia. Possible weapons testing site outside of El Paso, a recruitment center in LA, some weird culty shit out in Seattle and —” Natasha trails off, index finger poised in the air. She clears her throat. “And possibly a new training facility in Montana.”

Sam hums, clearly impressed. “Shit. You did your research.”His eyes were twinkling. “Did you budget for everything?” Natasha shows him her finger.

“I had no idea there were still so many left,” Steve mutters, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “But if anyone can handle it, it’s you two.” He pats her hand and withdraws with a dazzling smile, standing up with the intention of returning to the dishes. Sam catches his elbow as he passes by, pulling him down for a peck.

“Well,” Natasha admits, tracing a coffee ring on the table with her finger, thinking about the handful of business cards and slips of paper in her room. “We’re going to have a little help along the way.”


	2. new york

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!!! I would apologize for the long wait, but if you read the last fic in this series you waited 2 years between a couple chapters...so is it really a surprise at this point?
> 
> * warnings: very brief, barely-there reference to sexual violence & one mention of blood/mutilation. Both are in the opening flashback so if you want to skip, find the "Queens, New York" header
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed - feedback keeps me writing. Stay tuned for the next chapter :]

_Somewhere in Russia_

She doesn’t have a lot of particularly clear memories, but she does have this:

A particularly cold winter morning. She stands in a line with the other young trainees. The end of the row. Anya next to her, their bare shoulders brushing. The point of contact is the only warmth against an otherwise freezing gale of snow: every other bit of skin on her body stings with pinpricks, defenseless in the cold. All the other girls are naked, too. Lined up in the icy, winter-burned courtyard of the training facility with Madame, her back facing them, standing several steps away. Madame is bundled in a luxurious, warm fur-lined coat that buttons at her neck to keep out the chill. Her chin is up, held high, her gaze leveled across the gray yard. A meter out, two guards flank the only Widow not standing amongst the others.

Lizaveta is new; so new that no one uses a nickname for her.

She beat Natasha in a spar last week; Natasha calls her _Lizka_ in her head.

The pejorative form. Unnecessarily cruel.

 _Her or me,_ Natasha thinks ruefully. _And it won’t be me._

Lizaveta is folded upon herself, bent at the waist. It’s pitifully protective, a fearful pose, but one that will garner no sympathy.

Madame suddenly barks an order, and Natasha must stop herself from jumping at the suddenness of it. She watches as the guards spring into action: one catches Lizaveta’s elbow in a tight grip and wrenches her upright. The other holds her shoulder in a tight, gloved grip.

Like a claw against her pale skin.

“Please,” Lizaveta cries out, her northern rural accent thick with despair and fear. Some of the others mock her for it. “Please, Madame. D-Don’t do this, please.” Madame hates begging, considers it’s weak. They all know this, but terror is a powerful motivator.

Natasha wonders if she would cry and beg, in Lizaveta’s place. She doesn’t think so.

“Please, it wasn’t — I only want…“

Even over the roar of the wind, Madame’s voice is loud and clear: “Ah-ah. And that is your mistake, girl.” She glances back at the line of Widows behind her, eyebrow quirked and lip curled, then turns her cold gaze back to Lizaveta. “You _wanted_.”

She motions, her hand a brutal slice through the air. It has barely rested back at her side before the guards are moving, nauseatingly synchronous, lacking hesitation. The one on Lizaveta's right side grabs grabs her wrists, wrenching her forward, and stomps the back of her knee with his heel. She cries out and falls to the ground. There’s one mottled bruise on her cheek, evidence of Natasha’s vengeful victory over her in training the previous afternoon, and another ten. Small, nearly-healed ovals spread out over her ribs and hips.

Those aren’t Natasha’s doing, but she knows what they’re from.

The other guard pulls a knife from his boot. It glints in the morning light, recently sharpened. Lizaveta sees how sharp it is, too, and throws her head back into the guard’s groin. He grunts and then shifts his stance, moving his hips away, and grips her wrists tighter.

They take four of Lizaveta's fingers that morning. Two from each hand. Two for each piece of candy they found under her cot. Two extra for _wanting_.

Despite the injuries, they’ll force her to train just as hard. She won’t stand a chance against the other girls with that sort of handicap. The injury is as much a death sentence as putting her against the wall and squeezing the trigger, only now it will be at the hands of her sisters.

Natasha stands in line with the other girls and thinks: _at least it wasn’t me._ Then, as they’re being lead back inside, she reminds herself to dispose of a now-empty candy bag.

She’d hate to ruing her careful strategizing with a careless mistake.

 

 

_Queens, New York_

Natasha pauses her reapplication of lipstick to watch, through her rearview mirror, as a NYPD officer issues a citation to a blonde-bobbed soccer mom. She thinks: _at least it’s not me_ , and then chuckles at the sick parallel.

 _Want_. _Possessions. Things._ She watches travelers lug heavy suitcases behind them, struggle with duffel bags and purses and backpacks over their shoulders, and gets lost in her thoughts. When she was a child, if that word was at all applicable to her development, she owned several bobby pins and two hair ties. That was it, for many years.

 _Things_ , after all, could not own _things_ , and Natasha was raised to consider herself a tool and weapon first and foremost.

She smirks, sharp and sweet and tinged with vindictive glee, because she is seated in the heated driver’s seat of a very expensive 1940 Ford Coupe, and she is _hungry._

She’s hungry to spill blood. Specifically, the blood of the people who burned the sentiment of _thing, object, weapon_ into her brain. They couldn’t stop her from owning and wanting and having. Not then (she thinks of candy, bobby pins, contraband fashion magazines) and not now (a cozy apartment in Manhattan, thrifted clothes, a soft black cat, too many books). Not ever again. And soon, so close she can taste it, Natasha will be devoting her time to making sure _they_ will never burn that sick injustice onto another human being.

Attention back on the mirror, she wipes her pinky over the corner of her mouth and then cards her fingers through her hair a little nervously. A good portion of her hair is still blonde, but she’s purposefully neglected any touch up work in the last few months. As a result, the roots spring up from her scalp, flow forth bloody. Red and ruddy like a wound, marring and staining the soft platinum. The ombre is nice, but at a distance it looks macabre; like violence. A blow to the crown of her head, split open.

It’s a _look,_ to say the very least. She’s been told as much. But it doesn’t exactly aid her fugitive status.

Natasha is good at low-profile. She could be low-profile now, if she wanted. But she doesn’t. Paired with the classic car and the passenger in the backseat, she’s drawing attention, rather than diverting it. That’s the strategy, today. She wants to be recognized, make the news. _Natasha Romanoff, Fugitive, Spotted in New York!_ The Black Widow is back in America, and she wants the ones who are watching, those puppetmasters and scum she hunts, to know that she is coming for them, and that she is not afraid.

At this rate, it’s only a matter of time. Plenty of people walk by, travelers and businesspeople and students and families. Some slow or stop, pause in their routine or frenzied journey, to stare. They now who she is, and their recognition is followed by disgust or fear, and then they hurry away on their original paths, just a touch faster than before.

The NYPD officer has finished writing his ticket and glances nervously at her. He’s not brave or stupid enough to approach, probably wants to meet his quota and get home. But it’s only a matter of time until someone _is_ brave or stupid enough, and only a matter of time before the government or someone else attempts to detain her — or handle her with other methods.

Without warning, a gloved black hand reaches from the backseat and lands on her shoulder, startling her out of her thoughts. Natasha sighs and closes the mirror, twisting around in her seat with a quirked brow to meet the masked gaze of her passenger.

“Miss Romanoff,” he begins in annoying baby-speak, hands now clasped under his chin.“May I pwease have another fwuit snack?”

Natasha rolls her eyes and tries not to regret, too strongly, the recruitment of this particular ally. She leans over to the cardboard in the passenger seat and gropes inside for another crinkly package.

“There’s only one more after this, and we’re not stopping anywhere before we get to Forest Hills. Traffic’s too fucked,” Natasha warns him, but she hands the little pouch over regardless. “How have you already finished this box?”

Her passenger turns to the side, lifts his mask, and dumps the entire pouch into his mouth.

“Ma’am,” he sing-songs, almost choking, “You are en- _abl_ -ing me.” Coughs, chews for a second, jaw popping, and then adds: “Y’know, that empty box is not a crime of one.’ He swirls his hand midair. “Furbie-ah-deuce, or whatever _le French_ call it.” His words barely comprehensible around the mouthful of artificial sugar and gelatin.

“ _Folie a deux_ ,” Natasha corrects and turns back around, shooting Wade Wilson a disapproving look in the mirror. She catches a brief glimpse of his scarred mouth, chin, and jaw before he shrieks and pulls the mask quickly back into place.

“Don’t you know to knock on a lady’s dressing room door?” He reaches over her shoulder to wag a gloved finger in her face. “You naughty Twitter Russian spy-bot! No spicy voyeurism today.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, finding that she can’t quite force the smirk on her face to fade. After a few moments of jaw-clicking chews, Wade finally swallows…and almost chokes. Again.

“S-speaking of —“ he coughs, pounds his chest, dislodges a gooey chunk of corn syrup out the rear window, “Speaking of _spicy_ _voyeurism_ , where’s that hot piece of ass I was promised?”

Natasha could correct him again, say that he was promised no such thing, but she’s wondering that herself.

“Don’t know,” she admits with a glance down at her phone.

 **jbbarnes** : Landed. Just as much of a hellhole as I remember.

 **nromv** : ah, LaGuardia….never change.

 

That last text was sent nearly fifteen minutes ago. Natasha scrutinizes the crowd pouring from the baggage claim exit, scanning each face.

“He said he landed, so he should out at any moment,” she glances back up at the terminal doors, watching cae. Still no sign of him.

Wade props his chin on the back of the passenger seat and peers over her shoulder at the screen. “Oooh, hot. _Two_ close-eyed blushing smile emojis. I hear the Gen Zs call that monogamy.”

Natasha shakes her head and huffs out a little laugh, cheeks warming. “We’re not dating,” she says, no room for argument in her tone, and for emphasis: “It’s just an emoji.”

“Not dating?” Wade presses a gloved hand to his cheek. “Hell yeah, then you won’t mind me asking to get those digits.” He pulls out his own phone, fingers tapping away at the screen (who knew the gloves were touch-sensitive?) and then looks back up at her. Somehow, she can tell that he’s wiggling his eyebrows underneath the mask. “I have a couple of Renaissance-quality sausage pics that are just not getting the kind of attention they deserve on Tinder.”

Natasha purses her lips to keep from laughing outright. “Unsolicited dick pics. Sounds a lot like sexual harassment, to me. Maybe you’ll get better responses if you lead with something more…tame. And consensual.” She sneaks a peek at his screen. Wade’s profile picture on the app is a mask-on, shirt-off selfie of him flashing the peace sign. She’s never been less shocked in her life.

Clearly affronted, Wade drops his hand over his heart daintily, like a scandalized Victorian heroine. “Madam, I’ll have you know I have never once sent an _un_ solicited dick pic in my life. I always ask permission!”

“Of course, my bad for tarnishing your good name,” she says. “And no, you may not have Bucky’s number.”She can’t tell his expression though the mask, but he rolls his r’s enticingly, like he’s caught her, soshe quickly adds, “because he’s adapting pretty well, and I think you might be just the right brand of _too much_ to shock him back into nonverbal territory.”

“C’mon.” Wade purrs seductively, and then contorts his taller-than-average frame against the backseat in a bad impression of Titanic-era Kate Winslet. Contrary to the pose, he says, “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

Natasha does laugh now, albeit reservedly, and tries her best to ignore the hot, possessive flare that picks at her temper. “Comparatively, your ‘best behavior’ is much worse tan everyone else.” She holds up her phone. “No, I’ll save him the trouble and keep you out of his contacts.”

Wade deflates dramatically and whines, “That’s so boring and monogamous of you.”

The heat on her face is now undeniable, so Natasha reaches up and tilts the rearview mirror so he can’t see her cheeks pinking.

“Not dating,” Natasha insists once again, realizing that it will probably not be the last time those words leave her lips.

 

 

It’s another fifteen long, grueling minutes. Wade, of course, talks throughout. Conversation isn’t hard — she _uh-huhs_ and laughs in the right places, ignoring him for the most part, in favor of scanning the crowd. It’s part surveillance, part curiosity, part escape from Wade’s incessant chatter.

The crowd thins after a moment and Natasha begins to zone out, gaze lingering on each face. She begins to make up a short backstory for every person…that is, until one particular face catches her eye. 

“There,” she announces. Wade perks up in his seat as Natasha twists the key in the ignition and pulls closer.

Doing his best to look average and unimposing, Bucky Barnes meanders out of the sliding doors, sandwiched between (and towering over) two businessmen. _He’s doing the best he can,_ Natasha thinks bemusedly, taking in his ducked head topped with a baseball cap. He’s hunched over slightly, no doubt trying to appear smaller, hands shoved in the pockets of an olive bomber jacket that fits rather distractingly snug on his broad shoulders. Underneath, he wears a plain white shirt and on his legs, a pair of ripped jeans. He looks like any other millennial traveler with a navy Nike travel bag slung over his shoulder, if not for the figure he cuts in the crowd and the nervous energy positively radiating from him.

“Uh oh,” Wade announces sardonically, “looks like homeboy’s not feelin’ that sweet New York stank.” He leans out the window and draws a deep, loud breath through his nose before gagging. “Mmm. Eau de trash and piss.”

Natasha shakes her head and guides the car closer to him, against the curb. “That or…well, y’know, PTSD. He’s probably really uncomfortable in a crowd like this.” She hums pityingly. “Can’t imagine how he feels after all that time in isolation.”

“Probably pretty bad,” Wade says, propping his head up in his hand, elbow on the window frame. “Hey, soldier,” he whistles enticingly.

Natasha turns around to give him a withering glare. Bucky’s head jerks up, finding Wade’s masked face, and his brow furrows suspiciously. He makes no move to come closer; in fact, the fingers holding onto his bag’s strap tighten nervously, until they’re white and bloodless. Natasha realizes that his left hand is concealed with a leather glove.

Wade beckoning him with catcalls is probably the least welcoming thing, at the moment, so Natasha leans across the center console to turn the window handle a few cranks. Unbuckling, she sticks her head out and waves.

“Morning!” She calls, careful not to drop his name in a crowd like this. Attention caught, Bucky turns his head. “Heard you’re a diva, like to travel in style.”

It’s…strange, the feeling that settles in her gut, her reaction to what happens next. He picks her voice out in a millisecond, even from far away, probably not able to see her face clearly. Goes from pinched, suspicious, hackles raised — to _smiling_. Not a nervous smile of recognition but, Christ, it sound ridiculous, bright as the sun. Thrilled to see her, but maybe that’s just her mind filling in blanks.

 _Oh no, oh no no no,_ her thoughts race as the warmth that spreads in her chest, and Natasha waves a little harder. It’s one of those blindingly warm smiles, and the way that he lifts his hand in greeting - a tentative, almost shy gesture - makes her grin back. He cuts carefully through the traffic in the taxi lanes and jogs over, that grin never dropping from his face. Even as he yelps an apology to someone he nearly runs down.Leaning over the console, Natasha lifts the lock for him. He opens the door, drops his bag in the footwell, and then leans over, peering into the car.

Looking at her.

He’s smiling, still, corners of his mouth turned up, eyes sparkling with something that Natasha is scared of naming.

“Hi, Red,” he says. Warm, happy. Not broody like that “first” meeting in Wakanda, not at all. Happy to see _her_.

_Fuck._

“Hey,” she offers in return, feeling tongue-tied and stupid. She withdraws into her seat, melting her spine back against fabric, imagines herself glued there so she won’t reach out and — well, she doesn’t know. Do something regrettable.

“Hi,” he repeats, a little breathless, and then blinks down at the passenger seat. “Uh, hey. So, you’re in charge of provisions, I take it? What’s this?” He asks, gesturing to the brightly packaged box with bemusement.

Natasha gathers herself and then smiles wanly, embarrassed for some reason. “They’re, uh. Fruit snacks. Oh, uh…here, sorry.”

“No problem.” Bucky replies quickly, without hesitation, still looking at her a little blankly like he hasn’t even heard her reply. She tosses the box behind her.

“Here, here. Sorry,” she says again, patting the seat, silent as Bucky folds himself into it. The space is about six times smaller than he needs, his knees tucked up and his right shoulder pressed into the window.The top of his cap touches the ceiling. He’s sitting there in that confined space, obviously uncomfortable, squirming and shifting to rearrange into the space, and all she can think about is how _awkward,_ best case scenario, this whole thing is going to be if she can’t reign in her hormones.

He settles, eventually, pulls his arms in towards his ribs and then turns to look at her. Finds her eyes, and — god, that smile he’s aiming at her? Bulldozer to the pathetic remnant of the wall she’s got up.

“Ready?” But he doesn’t respond, not right away, and then his smile falters a little.

 _Shit_.

Okay, so maybe the last few months have caught up to him. Natasha’s been purposefully ignoring his texts up until today, getting updates only through the royal siblings or Majda, infrequently. Is ghosting healthy for either of them?Probably (definitely) not. Whatever was happening between them, weird trauma bond and all, wasn’t a normal situation though, so social norms didn’t count.

At least that’s what she told herself, when she was feeling particularly guilty. And despite the fact that they’ve left on that really awkward note, staring heatedly at each other and kinda-sorta agreeing on a _friends only_ situation, she’s taking him up on the whole road trip idea. Because…she’s a good friend? Because she owes him? Because it’ll give him some closure or joy in vegenance? Because…wow, she really, really wants to get her mouth on that strip of skin under his collarbone —

_No. Nope._

She doesn’t want to think about her motivations right now.Or at all, really. It’s still a little raw, even if she knows it was the right decision for his healing and her sanity. There was a space between them that she was nervous to fill. A sort of _yes, and?_ moment, left blank, underlined to fill in how they chose.

 _And they chose friendship,_ she reminds herself, _because it is the rational, healthy, adult decision to make._ Even if those feelings, or that tempting desire, aren’t going to go away in a magical puff of smoke. They’re still there, tinging her perception of him as she stares. It’s the only explanation, she insists, for the shock of tension in that moment, as green and gray meet. A fizzing sort of electricity skitters up her spine, and Natasha suppresses a full-body shiver.

To regain some semblance of control over the moment, she tilts her head inquisitively and smiles, close-mouthed.

“Hi?” Less a question, more a greeting. He’s still silent. “Earth to Barnes?”

His eyes drop slower than they have any right to, drifting down the curve of her cheek like a physical touch, landing on her mouth. Her breath catches in her chest — it’s only a short moment, barely a second, but…he’s looking at her — _looking,_ like…

Guiltily, quick as a flash, those dark eyes snaps back to a modest spot on her face. Like the moment never happened, like she hallucinated it.

He’d definitely pick up on any breathing pattern changes, so Natasha fights to stop from, well, panting. What a silly thing to be undone by. She refuses.

“How was your flight?” She prompts again, and he, for some godforsaken reason, blushes — _blushes!_ Caught and realizing how easy it was for her to read _him,_ most likely. He’s self aware _._ He knows that _she_ knows his gaze is wandering, and the fact that he’s embarrassed by that?

Interesting, to say the least, because she doesn’t want to say _hot_.

“My…flight?” He asks, stilted and confused for a split second, before he laughs hard at his own forgetfulness. “My flight, right. It was, uh…well —”

His answer takes a beat too long to come.

One thing Wade Wilson is good at, is filling silence.

“You sure they unscrambled his brain?” The mercenary asks from the backseat, and then, adopting a twanging accent, declares: “That boy ain’t right.”

Bucky is the world’s (second) best assassin and a world-class sniper. He has incredible perception and, whether from paranoia or training or a mixture of both, is usually in complete control of his surroundings. Which makes the fact that he startles like a spooked cat at the sound of Wade’s voice, that much more humorous. Unfortunately for Wade, getting the drop on the Winter Soldier is unhealthy. Bucky’s right hand moves down, quicker than the untrained eye could catch, to grab the handle of a knife he’s got tucked in his boot.

Natasha isn’t untrained, fortunately, and she manages to catch his wrist and stop the arc of the weapon as it drops towards Wade’s face. Bucky spooks again at the skin contact, jumping in his seat this time, and bounces his head off the coupe’s hard, interior roof.

“Ow — fuck!” He shouts at the same time Wade laughs.

“I was going to ask how you got that thing through security, but TSA is a joke.” Natasha says.

Bucky’s apprehensive gaze ping-pongs between her and Wade comically for a beat. The knife is about an inch from the tip of Wade’s nose. Settling on his would-be victim, he demands: “Who— who the fuck are _you_?”

Wade makes that weird trilling purr again and paws the air with his fingers. “Ooooh, Nat didn’t tell me there was such a filthy mouth on you. Deadpool likey.” He extends the same hand directly into Bucky’s personal space, offering his gloved palm. “Wassup, dude. Name’s Wade, or DP, but you can call me Big Daddy.”

“No, no.” Natasha interjects, stifling a giggle. She lets go of Bucky’s wrist to bat at Wade, glaring at him without any heat, then shakes her finger like she’s disciplining an unruly puppy.

“Do not call him Big Daddy,” she says to Bucky, who still looks a little wild-eyed, “and do _not_ shake his hand. You can never be sure where it’s been.” She ignores Wade’s indignant, offended huff. “I promise he’s harmless, as long as —“

“As long as you ain’t a fuckin’ Nazi!” Wade shrieks, like he’s just remembered why, exactly, he’s been recruited for this particular mission.

Natasha taps her nose and then points at him before finally shifting the car into drive, knocking Wade against the back seat with a perturbed little _oomph_ at the Coupe’s acceleration.

Wade waggles his fingers at Bucky in the mirror. “Nice to meet you, Terminator zaddy.”

Natasha bites the inside of her cheek, pulling them away from the crowded pick up lane. She balances a merge between a bus and a taxi with glancing at Barnes out of the corner of her eye. He’s tinted all rosy, clearly still adjusting to Wade’s _unique_ personality.

“Give the poor antique a break, Wade.”

Bucky glares at her before his attention is drawn to his pinging phone, reading whatever notification has just popped up, and… and then his face goes even redder.

“Uh, wow. How did you get— you know what.” He turns around in his seat and then offers Wade his hand, who gasps and grasps it tightly. “Nice to meet you, too, pal. I’m outta my comfort zone right now, and I, um…” he points at his phone, “understood about half of that. But I appreciate it. I think?”

 _Well,_ Natasha thinks to herself, impressed, _someone has clearly been working on their social anxiety in therapy._

Wade seems equally charmed. “Oh, cool. I was kinda expecting big mad broody type. Not that big mad and broody isn’t in my internet search history, it’s just nice to be surprised sometimes.” His mask pulls near the eyebrows a little. “I can tone it down. Any ally of Nat’s is an ally of mine, and you just happen to be a super hot ally.”

Bucky snorts, and Natasha can’t tell if the noise is amused or disbelieving. He gives the mercenary’s red and black ensemble a once-over in the mirror and then grins. “Looks like you can handle yourself, so you watch my back and I’ll watch yours, huh?”

From the stretched shape of the fabric above Wade’s chin, his jaw has clearly dropped open. He leans forward, straining his seatbelt. “Is the Winter Soldier _flirting_ with me?” He whisper-screams in Natasha’s ear.

She bites her lip, grinning. “I said he was an antique, not dead,” she says, laughing outright when Wade finds himself on the receiving end of a wink and swoons.

“Be still my throbbing — my _beating_ heart,” Wade says, fanning himself. “Oh, I’ll be watching your back, big guy.”

“I,” Natasha declares, her voice thin from holding back laughter, “I am _so sorry_ —“ she glances over at Bucky, shaking her head, and brings the car around the curving merge, south onto Grand Central. “I’m so sorry. He’ll get it out of his system —“

“ _It_ will certainly be out of my system.“ Wade says lasciviously, making an obscene motion.

Natasha ignores him. “And then he’ll be much better behaved, I promise.” She turns to offer an apologetic smile, and finds herself pinned by Bucky’s intense stare. He’s been watching her drive, apparently.

“S’alright,” he says, slow like he’s been pulled from a thought, polite like it’s second nature. And then, like he can’t help but to blurt it out, like the question is eating at him: “You’re growin’ your hair out, huh? Let the red come back in?”

He sounds pleased. Natasha’s eyes are off the road a beat too long, because a someone behind them honks abruptly. She tugs the wheel, jerking the car to the right and nearly avoiding a collision. A minivan with one of those annoying, shitty stick-figure family window stickers is _not_ what she wants to be her unmaking.

 _“Whhhhheeeeeee!”_ Wade screeches from the backseat.

“Shit, sorry,” she gasps when her heart rate finally returns to normal. She laughs nervously, brushing hair out of her face.

No mistakes, no complications, no dictations. How embarrassing would it be to have the road trip cut short, because she’d been thirsting over an ex and maimed them all in an accident?

“Sorry. I swear to God I’m licensed to drive.”

 _No distractions,_ she reminds herself, and then makes the mistake of glancing over at him again, despite the reminder. He’s smiling gently at her, eyes crinkling in the corners, and…fuck, she’s really gonna have to work on her _no distractions_ mantra, if this is how it’s going to be.

“Um,” she finally says, remembering his question. “Uh, yeah. I’m growing it out.” She looks at herself in the mirror and brushes a piece of hair back behind her ear. “It was getting too hard to maintain. And to be honest, I kinda missed the red.”

“Mhm,” Bucky agrees thoughtfully, finally unpinning her from his stare to look out at the road. “Me too. Red was pretty classic.”

“ _The implication being that the gentleman pictures her often enough to have a preference on her appearance,_ ” Wade says in her left ear, assuming the cadence and accent of a Victorian drama narrator. “Take this next exit, heads right into bone town.”

Bucky, bless him, pretends not to have heard the aside, but his ears are delightfully red.

 _This,_ Natasha thinks with a hint of exasperation towards her lack of self-restraint, _is going to be way more challenging than I thought. Wiping out the last, desperate survivors of a powerful, resourceful fascist secret society is going to be the easy part._

Last time they’d been in the same room (or confined space, for that matter), Natasha had just barely managed to be responsible and extract herself out of his gravitational pull. At the time, it had taken every last drop of her willpower not to turn around, head back to his suite in the royal palace, and ride him until he begged her to stop. Although her brief stint in Wakanda had been _months_ ago, that same raw energy crackled between them just as strong as they’d left it.

Natasha _has_ to be responsible. It’s not the right time, he’s too fresh out of recovery, it probably isn’t even a good idea in the first place. “Friends” is safer than whatever else was on the table for them, right? Some relationships were like petri dishes for toxicity, and she couldn’t imagine worse growth factors than _former assassins_ and _trauma_ and _lying by omission_. Not to mention all the other messy baggage they’d both be bringing to the table.

“Flushing Meadows looks different,” Bucky remarks quietly as they pass the Queens Museum, shaking his head. “Wild. Went to the World Fair with Steve, then six months later everything went to shit.”

Natasha nods. “Yeah, ’39 was awhile ago. Not sure if you noticed.”

“Damn, that’s old.” Wade huffs. “What’s the male equivalent of a cougar?”

Bucky snorts, wiggling a little in his seat as he finally, _finally_ relaxes. “Just a creep.” His fingers are laced together on his knees. Meadow Lake flashes by in a blur, and Natasha takes the exit onto Jackie Robinson. A few moments pass in relative silence — aside, of course, from Wade’s near-constant, thankfully whispered narration.

“Lots of things have changed.” She remarks, breaking the silence. “I’m surprised you haven’t been back.”

Bucky shrugs, leans his head against the backseat. “Maybe I did, can’t remember. Or it wasn’t safe.” He perks up suddenly, peering out the window. “Hey, we goin’ through the park?” There’s a playful grin on his face. “You droppin’ me back home for some reason, Romanoff? Am I off the mission?”

Warmed by his recognition of the area, Natasha smiles and shakes her head. She takes the exit and then a couple of turns, onto a sleepy street lined with cars. “Nope. Wade, which —“

“This one!” Wade says, just a second before Google Maps tells her to stop. Natasha pulls slowly against an empty spot on the curb and throws the Coupe into park. The house they’ve stopped at is a square brick two-story, modest and a little run down compared to some of the other homes on the street. There’s a couple missing patches on the sloping roof, but there are two cars in the driveway. One is a relatively old Toyota and the other is a _very_ old beater with duct tape wound around the back bumper.

“You sure this is the place?” Natasha asks.

Wade nods, and then stops himself from reaching for the handle. “Oh, we’re coworkers. Also probably shouldn’t be popping up in the neighborhood all costumed up.” He gestures to Natasha, who is wearing sensible knee-high boots over jeans and a green t-shirt. Comfortable civilian clothes. “You look normal enough.”

Bucky snorts. “I can see the headlines. _Masked latex weirdo infiltrates sleepy, gentrified Forest Hills._ ”

“It’s not latex!” Wade defends, clutching his nonexistent necklace of pearls. “I would never wear something so unbreathable.”

“Okay,” Natasha says, turning off the car. “Just a knock and pick up, right? I’ll be the visiting aunt, or whatever.”

“He’s already got one of those,” Wade says, “And she’s like, _super_ hot now, for some reason.”

 

 

The door swings open before Natasha can even knock, and she gets a glimpse of the woman Wade must be talking about for only a split second. She’s saying something, clearly a little perturbed, as a red and blue clad figure darts quickly under Natasha’s elbow.

“I’m _sorry_ , May! I know, and I will totally, definitely be back for dinner Sunday. Promise I won’t leave you hanging,” says the figure, taking the steps down the sidewalk two at a time. He freezes, on the last step, and then turns around nervously. “Ohmigodhi!” He yells, and then bounds back up to stretch out his hand. “Hi, holy — hi! Miss, uh… Agent Romanoff? Ma’am…Madame Widow?”

Natasha quirks an eyebrow and shakes it. She’s run into Spider-man once at the tower, back before — well, she ignores the little pang of nostalgia. From several steps up, she’s of a height with the kid, so she sticks out her hand. “Natasha is fine. Romanoff, if you’re into manners.” She glances back at the door. “Or if she is.”

“She is.” The other woman says, and then sighs with all the exasperation of someone who is raising a teenager. “Peter, come here.”

“Aunt _May_!” Peter whines, big white bug eyes darting between her and Natasha like he’s embarrassed. “What if this was some random who doesn’t know my secret identity?”

The woman, May, checks her watch. “Running out of the house in full costume in the middle of the day is hardly subtle.”

Peter tosses his hands in the air. “Not a costume,” he insists, as if it’s the hundredth time they’ve had this conversation. “But also you’re kind of right.”

“Yeah, these hedges are really not tall enough for any sort of secrecy.” She opens her arms, and Peter crosses the distance to scoop her up into a quick hug. “Okay, be careful. Text when you get there and when you leave.”

“May,” Peter says as he pulls away. “I’m not going out to, like, a dance or whatever. We’re gonna bust some weirdo neo-Nazi headquarters.”

Natasha watches while they disconnect, reading the unfiltered pride, confidence in Peter’s posture, the worry in the lines between his aunt’s eyebrows. She hooks her thumb over her shoulder towards the car, not realizing that Wade is hanging out of the back window and waving like an idiot.

“There’s going to be four of us, so he won’t be alone. No surprises, either, I’ve been collecting intelligence for a few weeks. Little town up near the Canadian border, maybe a five and a half hour drive. Five-fifteen if I speed. If it helps,” she smiles softly, placatingly, “I won’t speed.”

May’s got a ghost of a smile on her face for a split second, but it fades when Peter darts back down the stairs. The two of them watch as he greets Wade with some elaborate handshake and then piles into car, ooh-ing and awh-ing over Bucky enough that he must be uncomfortable.

“It won’t help. Nothing does, when I know he’s out doing this.” She looks over Natasha, assessing. “That the Winter Soldier? Just watching the news, they mentioned that court case. The one where they’re calling him a terrorist and mass murderer.”

Natasha must make a face, because May’s eyebrows shoot up. “He’s not —“ she starts defensively, and then snaps her mouth shut. “He’s…been through a lot.” She shrugs. “For what it’s worth, I trust him.”

May stares at her, still shrewd and assessing in a way that Natasha admires. There’s no softening of her features and she doesn’t return the grin, but she does nod her head, like she’s reached a decision. “Not worth much, seeing as how you’re in the same category, right?” May takes a step back into the doorframe, arms crossed. “But I’ve seen you on the news, with the Avengers. Peter’s talked about you, too, so…” she trails off, eyes lifting towards the sky for a moment. “Keep an eye on him.”

“Yes ma’am,” Natasha promises immediately. May nods again, all serious and final, before she closes the door.

She stares at the chipping paint for a moment before turning and striding down the front walk. As she’s nearing the front door she hears Peter speaking animatedly.

“ — girlfriend says you got number one on that Buzzfeed hot superheroes list.” Natasha buckles up and catches the kid cross his arms petulantly. “She thinks you deserve it, which is like, mildly insulting since we are, y’know…dating, and I am also a superhero.”

Wade’s munching on the final pack of fruit snacks. “See, I’m telling you, dude. They just don’t be making bone structure like that in the 21st century.”

Natasha glances over at Bucky, who rolls his eyes but can’t seem to help the curve of his lips. “Shut up.”

She starts the car and peels out fo the neighborhood, aiming them back towards the highway and towards Manhattan. The plan is to stop at a safehouse of Clint’s to stock up and change before starting the drive north. “Those polls always favor a really specific —“

“Straight white girls!” Wade interjects.

“— Specific group, anyway.” She peeks at Wade in the mirror. “Sam was ninth, or something wild like that. Luke was lower, too.” After a moment she adds: “Full disclosure, Thor beat me for second and I still feel a little salty about it.”

 

 

Later, she’s panting and out of breath, some doped-up skinhead goon’s neck locked between her knees. When he finally slumps, boneless and unconscious, Natasha jumps from the ground and collects her batons, which have rolled a few feet away during the scuffle. They’ve won, the fighting’s died down, and now all that’s left is the clean up.

“Catch!” Peter shouts, heaving some guy encased in web through the air. He lands directly on top of Wade, who is rifling nosily through a file cabinet. “Got a few more where that came from.”

She finds Bucky a few doors down, standing at the center of a conference room circled by several unconscious bodies on the ground. The fiending skinheads have been using the abandoned office building as a headquarters, and judging from the stack of papers in his left hand, he’s found something useful amongst all the chaos.

“They’re definitely down south, up in the mountains,” he explains, holding up the stack. Natasha takes the papers and ignores the jolt when their fingers touch.

“Yeah, figured my info was good. Hey, thanks for the help back there. Probably saved me a concussion.”

“No problem.”

“Feels good to be working together again, huh?” And then, realizing the implications of that statement and getting embarrassed by her carelessness, she turns abruptly o leave the way she came.

He says her name.

“What?”

The last of the day’s light is filtering through the windows, casting him half in shadow, all mysterious and…distracting, and that’s — not a line of thought she needs to go down, right now. Adrenaline has always made her itch for the rest of a fight, or something markedly less violent.

“Just thought you should know,” he says slowly, drawing so, so close, “That if it were up to me, you’d have first place.”

He brushes past like a ghost, leaves her standing there with heated cheeks and her mouth open in the setting sun. Not for the first time, certainly not for the last, she thinks about how completely and utterly _fucked_ she is.

 

 _And that is your mistake, girl,_ whispers the voice of Madame in her head. _You wanted._


End file.
